Palantír
by ElvishKiwi
Summary: Denethor II was undoubtedly among the greatest of Gondor's Stewards, yet also the most hated. Why did he fall so low? Or did he? Set during Return of the King, with flashbacks to his earlier life. Book verse. Canon, or as close as I can make it.
1. Chapter 1

**I have tried really hard to keep this canon, but I'm not at all an expert, so if you see any mistakes in my history or timeline, or if you think something's out of character, please don't hesitate to pull me up about it. Hope you enjoy.**

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**January, 3018**

The palantír was cool and smooth against his hands, murky and still. Denethor slowly turned his head to stare into its ageless depths, clearing and readying his mind for the ordeal that he knew was to come. His stomach tightened with nervous anticipation, and he forced his breath to slow, before slipping into the depth of the palantír...

At first all he saw was a blue grey haze, shifting and swirling like smoke on a breeze, but slowly the fog began to clear. He saw Minas Tirith rising from the plains, framed by the mountains and the deep blue sky. This was where it always began; no matter how hard he tried to start somewhere else, the first thing he saw was always his city as it had looked in the morning so many years ago, as he rode back into his home... He brushed the picture from his mind, and focused on Imladris. For a moment he glimpsed a village somewhere in Gondor's northern borders, then suddenly the valley swirled into view, hazy at first, but becoming clearer as he focused in closer, unconsciously moving a little further from the glowing ball as his vision cleared and the trees moved closer into veiw.

Rivendell itself was shrouded in mist, as it always was. At first he had thought it was just caused by the river, but it never cleared, and after probing it from every angle he had come to the conclusion that it was deliberately devised by Elrond to keep out prying eyes. It was wise, yes, but also maddening. The last time he had seen his son was almost a month before as he entered Imladris, and Denethor had no idea whether he was still there or had already turned homeward. Searching here was futile, yet he longed to see his son again, to know if he was safe...

After vainly scanning the forest for a few moments, he sighed and turned his gaze southward, focusing into Hadar, the capital of the Harad. The city was busy, and throughout the streets soldiers wandered, their purses jangling at their belts and attracting the instant attention of the street vendors. Denethor's gaze barely swept over them; he had seen them there before and knew there were now over four thousand men gathered in the capital, crowding it to a point where the city could not sustain them for many more weeks.

The Haradrim were about to march to war and Denethor knew where they would come. Gondor and Harad had long been enemies; he had no hopes of them allying themselves with Gondor now with such a force as Mordor arrayed against them. The armies of Gondor could withstand easily the forces of Harad and crush them were they to attack alone, it was only this that had brought them the long ages of peace. Yet now the Haradrim were coupled with the orcs of Mordor, the armies would be phenomenal, and he feared that Gondor could not withstand such an attack.

Suddenly Hadar disappeared. A vision of himself appeared standing and shrouded in dark smoke. He struggled to control the glowing orb, trying to shift his gaze, but he could not. At last he forced himself to relax in order to save his strength, and slowly the smoke cleared. He realised he was on the wall at the top level of in the White City as it burned around him. Far below the plains were dark with men and orcs; with the heightened sight of the palantir he could see the forces of Mordor pour into the lower levels of Minas Tirith, burning and killing as they went.

With an inhuman effort he pulled his gaze away, and turned toward the citadel. There he froze, his gaze riveted to the White Tree, which stood, wreathed in flames. Its guards were still standing still as statues around it, facing outward, not seeming to notice the ruin to the treasure of Gondor they were supposed to be guarding.

With a cry of anguish he again wrenched his gaze away, but the palantír seemed to possess a mind of its own, and his gaze was immediately pulled toward the East, while a deep, rumbling whisper grew and coursed through his head. He felt the presence of Sauron, battering his mind, trying to take control of the palantír and drawing Denethor deep into the dark land... Shadows misted around him, invading his mind and clouding his thought with despair, and he heard the screech of a Nazgul ripping through his senses and almost overpowering him. He felt the Dark Lord laugh in triumph, but with a last effort he pulled himself away, wrenching his hands from the palantír with such force he threw his body halfway across the room. He dropped to his knees and knelt for a long time on the cold marble floor until he finally stopped trembling. He felt so old, wasted, drained. Every time he used the palantír Sauron seemed to get stronger, or he weaker. He had had no control over where it took him...

Slowly he pulled himself to his feet and walked out to the tower balcony. He stopped beside the door to pull a heavy cloak over his mail-clad shoulders before stepping out into the biting wind. Immediately he felt the load lift from his shoulders, and peace swept over him. He moved to the wrought iron railing, staring far down into the streets of Minas Tirith. After the dizzying experiences of the palantir, the high tower seemed very solid and safe. For a while he stood, clearing his mind and letting the wind blow through his hair and his soul, feeling peace wash through his veins.

The palantir had aged him a lot, both physically and mentally. His hair was now streaked with grey, and the lines on his face had deepened almost overnight. And inwardly, he felt tired, heavy and old. Now he wished only to die, to go, to be at peace with his wife wherever men's souls were doomed to go. Yet Gondor needed him, the White City needed him, his people needed him, and he would not forsake them in their hour of need. For an hour of need it was, with such armies amassing against them. Gondor could fall at any moment, and his days were occupied with frantic preparations for war.

He glanced toward the east, half expecting to see right into Mordor, where orc armies were massed on the plains around Barad Dur, and to feel the crushing will of Sauron battering his. Yet the only trace of Mordor was the faint but constant shadow lurking over the mountains. The Pelennor fields were lush with crops, everything was green and fresh, the people busy. They knew nothing of the shadow that their steward fought throughout long hours in his White tower, or the armies that soon would be gathering against them. To them they were only rumours, things to be put aside before the greater concerns of bringing in the harvest. Responsibility for protecting the city fell on him.

With a sigh of exhaustion he turned back into the tower. The palantír stood uncovered in the middle of the large, circular room, and Denethor quickly draped a dark, silken cloth over it, cursing himself for his neglect. He did not want prying eyes in this room. Wearily he walked over to a low chair at the end of the room and dropped into it. An image of the first time he had been in this room flashed into his mind.

**August,** **2947**

He was seventeen when his father had summoned him to the tower. Throughout Denethor's life his father had rarely called him into his presence for anything but a telling off. He was a wilful boy and usually fully deserved it, yet after examining his conscience he could not recall anything unusually sinful in his recent past, and besides, never had Ecthelion called him to the tower. So it was with a mixture of excitement, curiosity and trepidation he climbed the many steps to the tallest tower of the citadel that day.

The room had always been the private retreat of the stewards, and before them, the kings, and never before had Denethor entered it. He banged loudly on the door, and after a moment heard his father's voice bidding him enter. The door opened noiselessly at his touch, and he stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in his surroundings. The room had eight sides. Like an octagon, he thought, pleased he'd remembered something from his long and fearfully boring geometry lessons.

The walls were crafted of smooth, white marble, rising up and curving inward high above to meet in a point directly above a large table in the centre of the room. In the centre of each wall was a pair of large, black double doors under huge grey arches carved with detailed patterns and runes. Light streamed down from small windows set high in the walls, falling on the couches and tables scattered around the walls. In addition, on either side of each doorway was an iron torch in a beautifully carved bracket, which cast flickering shadows up the walls.

Directly opposite him the doors were thrown open revealing a wide balcony where his father stood, leaning lightly on the railing. As Denethor watched him, he turned and beckoned impatiently to his son. Denethor hurried across the room and under the carved archway to stand beside his father. The view was amazing. The city lay miles and miles down, shining white in the sunlight, surrounded by the golden, green and brown of the fields around the city. To his left he could see the ruins of Osgiliath on the banks of the river, and in every direction massive mountains rose from the rolling plains. He drew in his breath in a gasp of amazement at the sight. Everything was set out before him like a beautiful map, drawn by the finest of elven artists...

"Do not be afraid," Ecthelion snapped irritably, wrongly interpreting his gasp to be one of fear, "You will not fall."

"I am not afraid, father! I am not a child." Denethor burst out indignantly, then immediately regretted it as his father shot him a glance of anger and turned away.

"Forgive me, for I meant no disrespect!" he cried, following his father back into the tower. "Please, father, won't you at least tell me why you called me here?"

Ecthelion sat down in one of the low chairs, and regarded his son stonily. "I called you because I thought you ready to learn what it is to be a steward of Gondor. I see that I was wrong, as you cannot even listen submissively when I speak to you."

"Forgive me, father, please."

The steward rose from his seat and placed his hands on his son's shoulders, gazing into his eager eyes. He absently noted that Denethor had grown a lot, the boy was now only a little shorter than his tall father. Finally he nodded. "Come then," he said, moving out onto the balcony, this time from the doors to his left. "The Haradrim are attacking," he said calmly. "They have just appeared on the western hills. We have had no warning; the people are all still in the fields."

"What!" Denethor asked incredulously.

"What? Is that all you can say? If they were really attacking, asking your captains to repeat themselves is a waste of valuable time," the steward told him sternly, but with a glint of humor in his grey eyes. "Think boy, use your imagination, for you are in charge of defending the city. You have five hundred horsemen and about one thousand footmen that can be gathered on short notice. What are you going to do? These are the kind of scenarios you will face as steward, you have to be ready for them at any moment. I am waiting your command."

Ecthelion drilled his son for a couple of hours, and while at first Denethor was hesitant and questioning he gradually grew more confidant and began almost to enjoy the strategic battle of wits against his father's imaginary armies.

At last the steward halted the battle and dismissed his son to have his dinner. As Denethor entered the tower, something shrouded in cloth on a pedestal caught his attention. He stopped before it, curious as to what should have to be so hidden even in his father's private room, but hesitant to touch it and perhaps arouse his father's anger.

Ecthelion followed his gaze and answered his unspoken question. "It is a palantír, a Seeing Stone," he said solemnly. "A treasure of Gondor from the ancient realm that is said to have been placed here by Elendil himself. Have you heard of this thing?"

"Yes, I have read of it," Denethor said, his eyes shining as he gazed at his father. "I have heard that those who look into it can see anything they wish. I knew there was once one here, but I didn't realise you had it – well, that it was still here. Have you looked in it, father?"

"No, I have not," Ecthelion said sharply. "It is a tool, not a plaything. Many of the palantíri are lost, we do not know who might hold one. Tell me, boy, why that means we should be reluctant to use them."

Denethor frowned. "Because if an enemy had one, they might see you using it and realise you could see what they were doing?"

"No. Well, they might, but it wouldn't make much difference. Think boy, to use a palantír you must open your mind, and the things you see are in your head and controlled by your thoughts."

Denethor stared at his father, light dawning in his head as he processed this.

"If an enemy more powerful than you held a Seeing Stone," Ecthelion continued, "he could see into your mind, even control your thoughts. Imagine if this happened to an unwise steward. Through him the enemy could control the city, and Gondor would fall, and from thence the whole of Middle Earth. As such, the palantíri are very dangerous, and should not be used again until all are accounted for. Do you understand?"

Denethor wordlessly nodded and followed his father down the long, spiral staircase. After a moment Ecthellion started to talk again, his voice echoing eerily against the walls. "We know for certain there was a palantír in Minas Ithil before it fell; it was used several times for contact between our cities in emergencies. When Minas Ithil was taken by the Nazgûl, several of the last defenders escaped with it and fled at the last. They were found later dead, and we know not whether they managed to hide the palantír before they were overtaken, or if it was captured, or overlooked and picked up by some scavenger not knowing what it was. Stranger things have happened. Yet the palantír may even be in the hands of Sauron himself, and since that time our stone not been used."


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you to my wonderful reviewers, several of whom managed to spot glaring errors (Rivendale? What was I thinking?). Special thanks to Calenlass Greenleaf, my awesome new beta, who has been struggling manfully to pull me from the pit my inattention to all things grammatical has left me in.**

**Disclaimer: If none of this is mine, I've done my job properly. If I haven't, then it's mine anyway, so you've no right to complain.**

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**June, 3018**

A pale light streamed through a high window, falling on Faramir's dark hair as he stood before his father in the great hall of the citadel. Boromir stood beside him, impatiently rubbing the hilt of his broadsword as his brother talked.

"In my dream," Faramir announced to the steward, "I saw a shadow grow in the east, darkening the sky, while a faint light remained in the west. Thunder rolled loudly, yet from the west I heard a clear voice crying out:

_Seek for the sword that was broken:  
In Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsels taken  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
There shall be shown a token  
That doom is near at hand,  
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand._

And then I woke. For many days I have dreamed it, but I did not understand. At last I spoke of it to my brother, and yesterday -" 

"Yesterday I too saw the dream," Boromir interrupted. "Exactly the same. It was so vivid. I saw the sky grow dark and heard the voice as clear as I now hear yours – only it was distant, as if it was borne on the wind from some far off land..." His voice trailed off, filled with wonder, and he stepped forward eagerly. "What do you make of it, father? Of what use is a broken sword in such times as these? And what is Imladris?"

"Imladris is a valley in the north, the home of Lord Elrond Half-elven. It is commonly known as Rivendell," Lord Denethor said, absently tapping his fingers on the black marble of his chair.

Faramir, who was standing quietly behind his brother, lifted his head at that, and recognition dawned in his eyes. His father glanced at him piercingly for a moment before he spoke again. "As for broken swords, they are not wanted here. It is sharp weapons and strong men to wield them that we are in need of here."

"But the rhyme, could it be referring to the sword of Elendil?" Faramir asked. "For that was broken. Mayhap in some way it is – or is – connected to Isildur's Bane, whatever that may be. Have you heard of this thing?"

"I know not," Denethor said shortly, but his eyes moved to rest on the tall marble statue of Isildur, standing tall and proud between the columns at the end of the hall, and he frowned in deep thought. "Indeed, it would seem a strange coincidence that both my sons should dream such a dream."

"It is very strange," Boromir agreed, "and I know not what to make of it."

"Nor I," Faramir said, then, encouraged by his father's apparent interest, went on eagerly, "Father, if you will it, I will go to Imladris and seek out tidings of these things. My heart tells me this is a message we should heed."

Denethor turned his eyes thoughtfully to his youngest son. "You are far too inclined to listen to your heart; it would be of a lot more profit to you should you use your mind for such things."

Faramir took the rebuke in silence, but his eyes did not leave his father's face. Boromir at last broke the silence. "Such a road is long and hard, and methinks it is the responsibility of the elder son. If you allow it, I will find for you the meaning of these riddles."

A half smile touched Denethor's lips. "It seems I should find it hard to keep you here," he remarked. "You both seem very eager to leave me, though the shadow grows deeper and raids on our lands more common. It was only ten days back the enemy attacked Osgiliath, and barely were you able to hold the west bank against them. Many of our best men were lost, and the enemy will attempt to seize it again."

"Indeed, our need is sore, yet this is why I believe we should seek this thing now. Such things will only grow worse in the days ahead," Faramir said gravely. "I believe that this dream was given to us for a reason, and if this sword could bring Gondor aid, now is the time to find it, as we are tottering on the brink of one of the greatest wars Gondor has ever known."

"Indeed, you speak the truth. Mayhap it would be wise to discover the meaning of this riddle. Yet, I think your brother also speaks rightly – he is the eldest, and such an errand should fall to him," the steward stated, pausing for a minute, his eyes fixed piercingly on Faramir before he addressed his eldest. "I know I can trust you, Boromir, to do my will in this matter. If you have made up your mind to go, you should leave immediately before the snow falls block the passes, as it will be a long journey of many months."

"I have," Boromir said positively.

"Go, then, and make ready your affairs. I will procure maps for your journey."

"Am I to leave right away, then?" Boromir asked, a little taken aback.

"I see no reason to delay now that you have made your decision," Denethor stated. "The sooner you leave the sooner you'll be back. There is nothing of urgency you must accomplish before you leave? For I see nothing to hinder your departure within a week."

Boromir pondered this for a moment, then at last he nodded slowly. "Be it so, father, if this is your will."

Denethor laughed shortly. "It is your quest. Do what you wish."

Boromir nodded slowly and turned to leave, but halted before his brother, seeing the disappointment in his eyes. "Do not begrudge this to me, brother. You know I am far more in need of practice in Sindarin than you are. Should you go, you would no doubt learn all there is to be known of it, and I could not allow that. I am, after all, the eldest, and must need at least to appear more learned," Boromir said, trying to lighten the mood.

Faramir laughed lightly for his brother's sake, although in his heart he wished more than anything to go himself to Rivendell – Imladris – to see its famed libraries and halls, to meet heroes from the ancient legends and lore he had studied and dreamed of from before he could read. But it was not to be. "I do not begrudge you this honor, you have earned it tenfold," he said generously, clasping his brother's arm, "I only wonder how I am to fill your shoes while you are away. Methinks our father will miss you sorely before the year is out."

"Indeed I will," Denethor commented. "But I am sure I can make do without you for a little while. Go now and ready yourself."

The brothers strode together out of the great hall, lost in talk of Imladris and the elves, but Denethor sat alone in his stone chair for many hours, pondering what he had heard. He knew far more of the riddle than what he had revealed to his sons, but still many things were beyond his understanding.

So Isildur's bane was found. And the sword of Elendil was in Imladris. Fruitlessly he wondered if Thorongil possessed it, or if some other 'Heir of Gondor and Arnor' had arisen. It would be so easy to investigate with the palantír, but instead he had to send his son on a dangerous journey to find out, and then wait months for news. Curse Elrond's mist…

Thorongil had always been a slightly mysterious figure. He had arrived in Gondor with an eored of King Thengel's knights, and had immediately offered his services to Ecthelion for as long as he should remain in Gondor. None knew how long that might be, yet Gondor's forces were depleted from years of wary skirmishing with the orc hordes of Cirith Ungol, and at the recommendation of the Rohirrim king, the Ranger's help was gratefully accepted.

Indeed, as the man's height, dark hair and gray eyes proclaimed him of Dúnedain decent, he was immediately made welcome as one of kin of the steward, however distant, and was assigned a place in the tower guard, a rare honor indeed for a stranger. He seemed to have a way with men and in less than five years he was promoted to captain of the first watch. From thence he became a favorite of the steward, growing in popularity until within a space of twenty years he had become a Captain of Gondor and one of the steward's closest advisors.

Denethor, however, while welcoming of the stranger at the beginning, grew deeply suspicious of him as he rose so swiftly in power and the esteem of all. Maybe it was that which led him to investigate the ranger's origins, and the strange ring which he bore… Denethor smiled at the recollection of their conversation so, so long ago. It had been largely one sided, yet effective nonetheless…

**September, 2980**

"I know who you are." That was how it had begun, and with that simple statement Denethor immediately captured the man's full attention.

"Of what do you speak?" Thorongil asked warily.

"You know well. I know who you claim to be."

"I am only your father's servant."

"Do not trifle with me," Denethor snarled. "That is no servant's ring you bear. Do you think I do not know its origins and history? It is the ring of Barahir, given to him by king Finrod for his loyalty, and passed down through Beren One-hand and all his line to Elros Tar-Minyatur and his descendants, then to the Lords of Andúnë, till at last it fell to Elendil and passed with him over the sea, escaping the drowning of Númenor and from thence down through the lines of Isildur's heirs. It is one of the oldest treasures of men. Why then do you bear it?"

"You know well your history," Thorongil commented dryly, "So far, you are almost entirely correct. One thing I will tell you, the ring is my own, my birthright. More than that, my business is my own."

"But not yours alone. You birthright, you say? As such, you are claiming to be the heir of Isildur. What then? Do you also claim the kingship of all Gondor and Arnor? Your ancestors lost their kingdom over one thousand years ago, and have since wandered, homeless in the north. And now you have come to Gondor, worming your way into my father's favor, leading and gaining the loyalty of Gondor's troops, earning yourself the regard and esteem of all men. Not all eyes here are blind. Why do you come hence? Do you perhaps hope that when you reveal your lordly lineage they will crown you king? What can you offer my people?"

"I offer them my sword and my counsel. I expect nothing in return, but to keep my own affairs. I do not wish for Gondor's throne," Thorongil answered quietly, but his eyes flashed.

"Indeed? It seems a strange coincidence. My father is old, his time of stewardship is almost over, and then we shall see the truth of your words. You have done your work well, and should your lineage be made known at such a time – by the Grey Wanderer, mayhap? – you know as well as I who the people would desire to reign over them. Yet with you at her head, Gondor would fall, under the shadow that rises to the east. What do you know of the ruling of a city? You are a wanderer, a ranger, not a king."

"I tell you, I desire no such thing. I am a ranger; I bear the title proudly, and I desire naught else," Thorongil quietly cut in, meeting the gaze of the steward's son squarely.

"Then what do you desire?" Denethor asked, dropping his voice. "Are you but the wizard's pawn? Do you see so little?"

"I have come to help Gondor, the city of my ancestors and home of my people. I came of my own choosing and I will leave when I will. I came here unnamed for a reason – I do not wish for Gondor's throne." His voice dropped a little, and he finished more gently, "I am not trying to rob you."

"But do you not see, you already have. If you had not come, who would be leading the armies to victory? Who would be now acclaimed as the savior of Gondor? And have you not also the entirety of my father's love? But you do not also desire my throne?"

"I do not. Indeed, it is not yours to take. You are heir of the steward, not the king."

"Oh, so this is how you will reason. You shall not be supplanting me, as you shall generously allow me to continue as steward of your affairs," he laughed coldly. "You know as well as I that that is not the truth. For one thousand years the stewards have ruled the white city. So we do not wear crowns or sit on thrones? They are but trifles. Arnor fell long ago due to the weakness of Isildur and his heirs, yet because of the stewards Gondor still stands. And it will continue so for many ages. Gondor has no king, Gondor needs no king."

"My lord," Thorongil broke in, his gray eyes hard and sharp as his now renowned blade, "I have told you of my intentions toward Gondor and yourself, yet as you will not accept what I say as truth, I can have nothing more to say to you. Please understand that I meant you no ill, and I apologize if I have caused you injury, it was not intentional. Yet I have told you more than I am inclined of my purposes here, meaning to set your heart at peace, and you seek only to insult my honor and my heritage. As such, you are wasting my time. Now if you will excuse me, I have much to see to before morning." He turned, and strode from the room, shutting the door firmly behind him and leaving Denethor alone to his brooding thoughts.

**June, 3018**

The steward chuckled grimly as he recalled their discussion. He had been blunt and rather lacking in tact and subtlety, yet the message had been sent and received with clarity.

It was later that month that Thorongil sailed after the fleets of Umbar and burned them, then disappeared into the north. The entire city seemed to mourn his loss, and none seemed to know the reason for his abrupt departure. Ecthelion was later told he had received an urgent missive and responded immediately, though none knew who it was from and whence he was called. Whatever his reasons or purposes, he passed from Gondor, and was not seen again in that land for many a long year.

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**I wanted so much to make Aragorn slam the door just then, but I decided it would be a little out of character, so I restrained my wicked urges and had him just 'shut it firmly'. Aren't you proud of me? You'd never believe how much self-control that took...**


	3. Chapter 3

**All thanks for this chapter and its quick appearance can go to my spectacular reviewers. When I saw your wonderful reviews I sat down and wrote another chapter. Never underestimate your influence.**

**Disclaimer: All belongs to the Master. (Except, of course, the errors, OOCs, unneeded fluffiness and melodrama... ok, actually quite a bit of it is mine.)**

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**February, 3019**

"All has been very still on the eastern banks," Faramir told his father as they paced side by side through the winding corridors of the citadel. "Indeed, it has been far too quiet for my liking. It has been seven months since Osgiliath's eastern shore was taken, and the enemy has made no move to attack us. Seven months! Yet the orcs are there, I guess about four hundred strong. I fear they are planning some surprise attack, yet I have seen no movement to strengthen the outpost, although I have sent scouts to investigate."

Denethor nodded thoughtfully but did not speak, and after a moment Faramir went on, "I have kept a watch night and day over the eastern shore, yet the men's attention is waning, despite all I say. They do not mean it to, but it is fear that keeps men alert and they have been watching the same banks for months now."

"Yes, they need to see some action. It so happens I have the very thing for them," Denethor said, stopping and facing his son gravely. "My spies tell me that a large host of Haradrim are gathering, about one thousand men with at least two Mumakil. In a few days time they will be ready to begin the march through Ithilien to Morannon to swell Sauron's armies. In about a week they will pass Henneth Annun."

Faramir nodded grimly, seeing what his father intended. He knew that the Haradrim were preparing for battle, and already this had been foreseen and discussed in the council meetings, so it did not come as a surprise to him. "We shall teach them that the men of Gondor do not stand idle and allow their enemies to pass freely within their sight and reach."

Denethor nodded and clasped his son's shoulder approvingly. "Indeed. You will take your company and cross the river two days hence, so that you have time enough to scout out the territory and find the best place for an ambush. I will leave that up to you, you will be in complete command. This will be your chance to prove to me your quality and trustworthiness. No word of your presence must reach Mordor or Harad, and the Haradrim must not reach Morannon."

"They will not."

Denethor nodded, then turned and led the way down the halls, his son falling into step a little behind him as they stepped into the bright sunlight of the stable courtyard. "Good. I will give you two hundred archers to add to your company, that is all that can be spared at the moment and should be sufficient if you use them wisely. Now go, your men must be readied. I will arrange for supplies and a company to take your place in Osgiliath-" He broke off and listened intently as a deep throated horn call sounded faintly on the wind. "The horn of Gondor," he breathed at last, and turned and rushed toward the pinnacle.

"Boromir has returned!" A smile of joy spread over Faramir's face as he followed his father, yet it slowly faded as the sound carried again toward him. The horn call was faint and far off, and it sounded in short, sharp blasts, not the long triumphant note of homecoming. He halted beside Denethor and eagerly scanned the plains and roads leading to the city, but they were empty apart from scattered farm carts and villagers.

"Are you certain it was Boromir's horn?" Faramir asked after a moment.

"I myself bore that horn, and my father before me. I am certain."

Again the horn call sounded on the breeze, and both men's gaze turn northward, yet the hills were cloaked in thick forest, and there was nothing to be seen. The wind shifted and they heard no more.

"It would seem to come from Rohan," Faramir said at last. "Father, I will take some men and go to seek tidings of him."

Denethor stirred, but his eyes remained fixed on the western hills. "No. You must go to Henneth Annun. Go now, I will send others to seek for tidings."

"But father, surely-"

"No!" Denethor at last turned his eyes to Faramir, and they were grim and haunted. "No. The city comes first." He turned wordlessly and rushed back into the great halls, leaving his son staring after him.

Denethor almost ran through the corridors, ignoring the stares of all who saw him, until at last he reached the tower of Ecthelion. He climbed the cold stone stairs two at a time and arrived breathless in the high chamber, where he strode immediately to the palantír and threw off its covering.

"Show me my son!" He commanded, resting both hands on it and staring into it eagerly. But it remained dark and murky, revealing nothing but his disheveled appearance, reflected on its smooth surface.

Sighing, he closed his eyes and attempted to settle his thoughts. The palantír did not work that way, he knew, he would have to search systematically. The problem was, he had no idea where to start. The call came from the north, from Rohan…

He opened his eyes and focused his thoughts on Edoras, and the city slowly appeared, the darkness disappearing like mist across the plains. He paused for a minute, concentrating on the palantír until it seemed to become one with him, an extension of his sight. Then he turned his eyes to Meduseld and it seemed to grow closer until he could see right inside.

The golden hall was dimly lit, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Theoden sat eating at a table to his left, Grima standing at his side. Denethor's watched for a moment in disgust as the feeble king was waited upon by the tall, dark northerner. He could barely lift a fork, let alone a sword, and Denethor's heart sunk as he watched. What help could this man offer Gondor, as feeble in mind as he was in body?

His gaze passed quickly over the hall, searching for evidence of guests in the halls, but he found none. In a corner the kings nephew stood interrogating two scouts. Their clothes were battlestained and dirty from long travel, yet the king ignored them, seemingly disinterested in all news from his kingdom.

Shaking his head in disgust, Denethor turned his gaze to the stables. His eyes passed over the rows of horses, but apart from the two being rubbed down in the courtyard they all appeared well rested. He guessed that the bays in the courtyard belonged to the scouts he had seen in the hall, so unless Boromir had arrived on foot it appeared he was not in the city.

His gaze turned to the rolling hills, and for a while his eyes swept over them, but he saw nothing. They stretched for miles, empty but for the long, swaying grass, hills upon hills going on and on until they reached the mountains. He could search for days here before he found any trace of his son, in fact, he could search for weeks and still find nothing.

"I know what it is you seek." A deep voice echoed through his head, and Denethor started in surprise, and started to draw back from the palantír. Then he halted, his fear for his son getting the better of his caution.

"Who are you?" He asked slowly, although in his heart he already knew.

"No matter. Let go and I will show you your son." The voice spoke clearly in his head, but did not show himself, and Denethor felt a touch of fear in his heart. All around him the plains of Rohan were empty, and the only thing that could have such direct contact was the bearer of the Ithil stone. So it was found…

But most important at the moment was that he find his son, and if the mysterious voice could show him, it might be his only hope. And even should it show him something else, what evil could it do? Quickly he made up his mind. "Show me my son," he said, and mentally drew back to let the being take control of the palantír.

Instantly the scene changed and he saw a huge river thundering around and beneath him, thundering into empty space a couple of meters away from him. Turning he immediately recognized it as the Anduin and the falls of Raros.

The banks were heavily wooded, and passing his eyes quickly over them he could see nothing but trees. He felt his frustration building, and he cursed to himself, wondering why the being brought him there.

Suddenly his eye caught a glimpse of movement on the western shore, and he immediately focused his gaze on it and drew himself closer. On the bank he saw three men standing, clustered around a small boat. His heart leapt with hope, but drawing closer, he realized that none were his son, and moreover they were not three men, but a man, an elf, and a dwarf. Mystified, he stared at them, wondering how such a company came about.

Then he glimpsed the contents of the boat, and his heart seemed to die within him. There lay Boromir, his face white and still, and his lids closed in death. His clothes were torn and dirty and his stiff hands were clenched around his sword, stained with the dark blood of orcs. By his side lay the horn of Gondor, cloven in two.

Denethor stared in disbelief as the boat was gently pushed off by those on the shore. He felt helplessness rise within him as the boat drifted closer to the falls, picking up speed as it caught in the current, yet he was powerless to stop it. "Boromir!" He cried out in anguish as the body of his son was swept over the falls and lost in the raging waters.

He stood and stared at the foaming water in shock. He refused to believe that his son was dead, yet in his heart he knew it was true. Boromir had died alone away from his people and his land, and his body was lost in the waters. He would not even have the honor due to the steward's son of a proper morning and burial, his family and his people did not even get to say goodbye or watch him laid to rest…

Denethor gave a dry sob and pulled away from the palantír, collapsing to his knees on the cold stone floor. How could Boromir be dead? His eldest son, always so strong and bold, so eager to do his father's will… it seemed only a moment since he was a young child…

**October, 2987**

Boromir sat on a very upright chair, his elbows propped on the dark, polished surface of an enormous table littered with books and papers. His eyes were fixed on the large book in front of him as he read it aloud to a white haired man standing before him, but he shifted impatiently as he read.

His father leaned in the doorway, and watched the boy with amusement in his eyes. At last his tutor gave in to the inevitable, and gave Boromir a small nod. "Very well, that is all for today, you may go."

Barely were the words out of his mouth before the boy leapt from his seat, scattering papers across the floor in his haste, and rushed across the room toward his father. Denethor straightened at that, and raised his hand. "Wait!" He commanded sternly. "That is no way to finish your lesson. Go back and tidy your papers and books, and thank your tutor."

Reluctantly the boy turned back, and swiftly set everything to order before bounding back to the steward, and wrapping his arms around his tall father's waist. An nine years of age, it was the highest he could reach. Denethor placed his hands on his son's shoulders and smiled down at his eager face.

"I see you have been working diligently. Your tutor tells me you are progressing well in learning your history, although in such things as languages you are not applying yourself as you ought."

Boromir's eyes dropped. "I try, Father," he said at last, "but they are fearfully boring, and there's so much to remember."

"Indeed, it is not easy. I ask only that you try your best at it."

"I will, I promise. But, Father, I have a question. I have been thinking it all through my lesson, but the Master told me it was a distraction and I must ask such things afterward."

Denethor smiled. "Well, then, what is it?"

"Why must we always be stewards? The white city needs a king like there were of old, and I think the council should crown you and be over with this endless waiting for some king to appear," the boy said, his brow furrowed in frustration, "for it seems to me foolish to eternally wait when all of that line are dead. How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king, if the king returns not?"

"Few years, maybe, in other places of less royalty," Denethor answered gravely. "In Gondor ten thousand years would not suffice. Yet why do you desire this? Is it not enough for you to be steward?"

"No indeed. For I deem that I must study as much as any king's son," Boromir said indignantly, "and you do all the work of a king, yet we have none of the honor and glory. At every banquet the great throne at the head of the table must sit empty, and the King of Rohan is of higher rank than you, though your power is far greater. And people do not sing songs and tell tales of great stewards as they do of kings. Yet our line has held Gondor strong for many years when all around us kingdoms fell. Why should we not be given the honor of kings?"

"Such are many things in life." Denethor answered, kneeling to face his son, and gazing solemnly into his clear gray eyes. "These things may seem unjust to you, yet this is our lot, and while our line stands we will place behind us hopes for our own honor and glory, and strive only for our city, to protect and preserve her throughout the times of shadow, to her time of peace in the ages to come. This is our duty. And are not our city and our people worth such a little sacrifice?"

"Yes, indeed." Boromir dropped his eyes, ashamed now for his outburst, which he now saw as selfish and childish. "Indeed, I will surely fight all my life for my city, and I would go even to the ends of the earth for her as Eärendil did of old, yet-"

"Yet what?" Denethor prompted, as his son fell silent.

"I only wish I did not have to study for so long every day!" The boy burst out. "Surely it is of more profit in such times as these that I learn to fight and ride. Yet every day I must spend all the morning at my books, and I only get a few small hours at the practice fields. I want to be a warrior and fight for my people, father, not a scholar endlessly bent over his books."

"I good steward must be both," Denethor told his son, laughing. "Indeed, wars are more often won by wise heads than mighty hands, and an army is only as strong as it's commander. But be that as it may, your studies have claimed you long enough this day, and I have time today to watch you at your swordplay. Your instructors tell me that you are doing well."

"Indeed I am!" Boromir cried proudly, his eyes lighting with eagerness.

"How could he not be when he scarcely thinks about ought else? Indeed, he would sleep with it beside him if I would allow it." Finduilas put in, catching the end of their conversation as she entered the room with Faramir. She smiled at her oldest son, yet there was a little sadness in her eyes. "I too would like to watch you, Boromir, if your father does not mind some company."

"May Faramir come too?" Boromir asked eagerly. "I can teach him how to fight, and then we can practice together!"

"Indeed, he is too young for that!" Denethor said, laughing again. "Faramir is small, and it will be a few more years until he can bear weapons or learn such arts. But he may come to watch, and maybe your example will inspire him. Be that as it may, it will be good to be together. There is little time for such things these days."

Boromir ran eagerly to dress in his padded practice tunic, with Faramir trailing happily behind him, while Denethor took his wife's arm and they walked through the wide halls to the gardens and weapon range.

"It grieves my heart to see him so eager for fighting and battles, of which he knows nothing," Finduilas said softly. "Our people need warriors to lead them, and in my head I know it is what must be, yet in my heart I grieve for them, and for their innocence. It is hard to see my son learn to kill, yet it is that or be killed." Her voice trailed away and she shuddered.

Denethor clasped her hand tightly. "Indeed. War is the deepest of all evils, yet we fight for peace, and for the children who are to come in ages hence."

"Yes. Yet still my heart grieves. Such is the fate of women – to watch, helpless, as their fathers and brothers, their husbands and sons, march into war, some never to return." Tears brimmed in her eyes and dropped down her cheeks. They reached the door to the gardens, and Denethor stopped in front of it and silently pulled her into his arms, oblivious to the servants and guards milling around them.

"Forgive me," she said at last, her head resting on his shoulder. "Yet the shadow in the east ever grows, and it frightens me."

"Do not fear, for I will ever guard you and keep you safe," Denethor murmured, "as will your sons, and every man of the white tower."

"But it is not only for me I fear, it is for you and our children, and for our people. The shadow seems inescapable." She raised her eyes to meet his, and he could see the fear and doubt clouding them, like a mist over her soul. Then she dropped them, and drew back, wiping away her tears. "Forgive me, such things should not be said. The shadow must be defeated, at any cost. Even if that means our death, or that of our sons."

Denethor nodded silently, searching for the words to comfort her, but he could not find them. Then the sound of running feet was heard on the stone halls, and his sons reached them, immediately drawing away his attention.

"What are you waiting here for, Father, Mother?" Boromir asked, then, not waiting for an answer, went on, "let's go! We haven't much time left before sundown. Come!" He grabbed Faramir's hand and forged eagerly ahead, his brother running to keep up.

Finduilas glanced up at her husband and he smiled softly at her, as he took her arm and they set off after their sons retreating forms. For the moment, it was good just to be together.

**February, 3019**

At last tears came to the steward's dry eyes and he sobbed brokenly, still kneeling on the cold stone floor. At last he pulled himself to his feet, and stood in the center of the vast, lonely room, too empty to cry any longer. All was stone around him, smooth, cold and unmoving.

Feeling trapped, he fled through the heavy doors into the balcony and stood staring out over his city as he had done so many times all his life. For a moment his grief and loneliness swept over him, and he considered throwing himself over the rails to his death below, but almost immediately rejected the idea. Whatever happened, his city came first. It was what he had fought for all his life, what his son and his fathers before him had fought and died for, and while she yet stood he would stand for her.

Again tears sprung to his eyes, but he pushed them back, fighting to overcome the loneliness and heartbreak that threatened to overpower him.

His son was dead.

For a moment the picture of Boromir in death rose to his mind, his son's strong hands and noble features, but he pushed it back. The past was behind him, he must bury it and move on. The city came first.

Suddenly a thought sprung into his head and he turned and hurried back to the palantír, hoping he was not too late. He gathered his thoughts and focused them on Raros, then when the image appeared he zoomed in to the western bank, searching for his son's companions. At last he spotted them, gathered around several packs and hastily rifling through them.

He barely gave the elf and dwarf a passing glance, knowing he would not recognize them, but focused in on the man, circling the palantír to get a look at his face as he bent over the packs. At that moment he lifted his head to speak with his companions, and with a gasp of surprise he recognized him as Thorongil.

There could be no mistake. Here was the man Denethor had unsuccessfully sought after and wondered about for forty years. Thorongil had seen the death of his son, and not come to his aid, or bore his body back in honor to his father, as any respectable man should have. What chance had brought them together? Why had Thorongil come back to Gondor? Was he seeking still for the throne?

Denethor pulled back from the palantír, his grief consumed in questions and anger.

And in the dark tower, Sauron, watching him, laughed. His purpose was accomplished. The steward would fall.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry this chapter has taken a while to appear - I do have excuses. Firstly, this chapter has been truly harrowing to write, and I rewrote it at least three times before I was halfway happy with it, and then my beta was away, and when she got back my computer crashed just as I was about to send it to her, and then I had to go away before I could get it fixed, and then I had to catch up with everything I couldn't do while I was away... **

**Yes, it was horrible, but finally this chapter's here, and to make up for the long wait this one is the longest yet, over five thousand words and almost nine pages long! Actually, is that a good thing?

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****Disclaimer: I am blatantly disregarding poor Tolkien's copyright and probably breaking several laws to do so, however, if it makes it any better, I openly admit my crime - this is all his.**

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**March, ****3019**

Denethor sat in his chambers before a low fire, drumming his fingers thoughtfully against the heavy stone cup in his hand. After a moment he roused himself and dismissed the weary man standing before him. "Go now, rest while you may, for soon you will again be needed." He raised his voice a little, and addressed the servant at the door. "Send in the captains, then take this man to the guardhouse and provide him with food and drink."

The servant bowed and left the room, as did the messenger, and for a while the steward was left alone. He rose wearily from his chair and crossed to the window. It was not yet noon, yet he had been up before dawn overseeing the preparations for war, and his head was starting to ache. There was so much to do: scouts to see and messages to be sent; the defenses had to be painstakingly checked and gone over; the men must be organized; and between them all he had to fit in constant meetings with his captains.

The women and children were ordered to be out of the city by noon, and on the southern roads the last of the long procession was trailing across the Pelennor. The beacons had been lit at dawn, and the Red Arrow sent to Rohan. And then Mithrandir had arrived with the halfling. Denethor sighed softly. He did not trust the wizard. Mithrandir would fight beside them, yet he fought for his own purposes, and had to be watched carefully. He was a valuable ally, but the last thing the steward wanted was to have to watch his back as well as his borders.

The door opened, and six tall warriors filed in. Very few of Gondor's captains were left in the city; most were posted at the outer defenses, or sent on various missions for the steward. Several men had been sent to oversee the evacuation of the women and children, Faramir was still in Henneth Annûn, and there were many others who had fallen in the months of bitter skirmishing.

Denethor dropped back into his chair, and motioned them to sit. "A messenger has just arrived with news of the companies sent from the Outlands," He began, getting straight to the point – this was war, there was no time for normal formalities. "He told me that they entered the Pelennor fields almost three hours ago." It was true – the fact that he had seen all that the messenger had 'informed' him of in the palantír hours before the man arrived was of no consequence.

Dagolad, whose company guarded the gates, nodded. "Indeed, my lord, my men have seen the glint of their helms in the distance. It looks to be a goodly number."

"Their numbers are no more than I expected, yet fewer than I hoped to see. I am told there are less than three thousand in total."

Dagolad's shoulders dropped and he sat back in his chair, his fists clenched. The other captains murmured a little, disappointment and anxiety clouding their features. After a moment Breghor, the youngest of the company, spoke up. "Is that all they could manage?" He asked hotly. "It cannot be a third of their forces. Do they not realize how dire is our need? Do they not grasp the threat Mordor is to us if we do not strike swift and hard?"

"Peace," Denethor answered coolly. "They understand it well, for the threat comes also to their halls. They have sent all that they can spare, for it is not only at Minas Tirith the Dark Lord will direct his forces. For I have more news. In Umbar the Corsairs are gathering and are readying a fleet for war. Already some forty ships have gathered in the havens, and still more are gathering. The coasts must be guarded; they have sent all they can spare."

The captains' faces fell at the news, yet they did not question it. None knew from whence the steward gleaned his information, but throughout the years his source, whatever it was, had been proved trustworthy, and none there doubted that what he told them was correct.

"Forty ships?" Gamrod, a dark, grim man of Lamedon, and one of Denethor's most experienced captains, asked, stroking his thick gray beard thoughtfully. "That is no small force. It seems to me that the people of the coast will find themselves regretting even the few men they have sent." Gamrod did not usually say much; therefore when he spoke the men around him fell silent and listened attentively.

"Indeed, even had they every man they could muster I fear that such a force would be beyond their strength," Húrin, Warden of the Keys, agreed, "Should the Corsairs attack our coasts our people will surely be defeated, and then we will be attacked from all sides. Indeed, this is a bitter blow."

"It is," Denethor said grimly, "yet it was not unforeseen, and the cities along the coasts are well fortified. If they are bravely defended they may stand, at least until relief arrives from the North. Our hope lies in Rohan."

"Yet they too are threatened sorely," Breghor said bitterly, "Indeed, it seems there are fell armies everywhere we look, and we are assailed on every side. Even with the forces of the Outlands our entire garrison only amounts to some ten thousand men, and it seems we will be faced with the combined armies of Mordor, Harad, Umbar and Rhûn. We will be outnumbered ten to one at least; even should the Rohirrim arrive in time. Is it not foolish to stand here when we do not have even a chance of victory?"

"What would you have us do? Would you have the men of Gondor fly in the face of the enemy and run to the mountains, there to be hunted and hewn down like animals? Better a thousand times that we should die on the walls of our city with our swords in our hands," Dagolad rebuked him.

"And with us would die the last hope of Gondor, and all this land would be choked in shadow!" Breghor cried, rising to his feet. "I would have us gather the people and flee to the mountains as Turgon did of old, where we could remain hidden and grow in strength, until in years hence we could sally out and retake our lands. To remain here is death."

Denethor raised his hand. "Sit, Breghor. Even Gondolin herself fell eventually; to flee to the mountains would only prolong our doom. And even should the armies gathered against us fill all the plains, Minas Tirith is strong and can long be held. We have men enough to man her high walls, and here we guard the entrance to the Outlands. While we stand here we are a shield for Gondor, so here we must stay."

"Yet while we fight here the Corsairs will ravage our coasts." Gamrod stated.

Denethor's face darkened. "Indeed that may be, yet for the moment we can do nothing. We must trust that the fortifications at Tolfalas and Dol Amroth will hold them off, at least for a while."

Gamrod nodded in acceptance. "So be it. Have you news of the enemy's movements?"

"The orcs are still gathering at Minas Morgul, and at the Morannon they are preparing to march forth. Also the host of Haradrim is marching up the Harad Road, and may already be in Ithilien. It is almost certain that they will meet to cross the river at Osgiliath."

Húrin's eyes narrowed. "Why the Morannon?" he asked. "If the enemy plans to attack at Osgiliath surely it would be simpler to gather all his forces at Minas Morgul."

Denethor nodded. "Indeed, I have considered this. Orcs too need sustenance, it may be that the stores in the city are not enough for the armies, or there is not room enough to house them all together. Or maybe he plans to send half his force to cross the river at Cair Andros."

"Cutting us off from Rohan." Breghor interjected.

"Exactly. Although Cair Andros is strongly defended, and if he attempts it he will find it is harder to destroy than he expects. Should he do so, however, he is dividing his strength."

Breghor shrugged. "Even half his force is enough to destroy us."

"So he thinks."

"This has been debated many times over, and time now runs short," Gamrod interrupted. "What is there still to be done?"

The steward listened as each of the captains gave their reports. The city was ready for war, after months of frantic work everything was finally prepared. When the armies of Sauron marched to destroy them, they would be ready to meet them.

They were bent over a large map, pinpointing the positions of the captains on the Rammas Echor, when the doors were thrown open and Mithrandir strode in. The door warden hovered anxiously behind him, throwing apologetic glances at the steward.

"Lord Denethor," Mithrandir greeted him, striding across the room, and dropping into an empty chair, "Húrin, Gamrod. Forgive me for the lateness of my arrival – I was delayed."

Denethor nodded in greeting and dismissed the doorwarden with a wave of his hand. He turned the map to face the wizard, and set his finger on the Havens of Umbar. "We have just had news from Umbar – the Corsairs are gathering a fleet, some forty ships and more coming."

Mithrandir's brow furrowed, but he said nothing, and the steward went on, "A large host of Haradrim, some twenty thousand, are on the move, by now they should be somewhere near Poros," he moved his finger up to rest on the river crossing, "and marching swiftly they should reach Osgiliath by nightfall tomorrow. Also hosts of orcs have gathered in Minas Morgul, and more still on the plains of Udûn. There are orcs marching from the Morannon as we speak."

Mithrandir nodded gravely. "The situation is dire."

"Indeed. It has been for many years." Denethor answered coolly.

The wizard glanced at him and Denethor held his gaze. The air between them was strained, and the captains glanced anxiously at each other. At last Húrin broke the heavy silence. "The Rammas Echor has been completed and is now manned, and there are captains placed at Cair Andros. All is in readiness."

Denethor turned from the wizard and shot him a glare, but the tension in the room was lifted, and the captains once again felt safe to draw breath.

"What of the Corsairs?" Mithrandir asked, now addressing Húrin, "what fortifications are laid against them?"

Húrin hesitated and glanced at the steward, but Denethor signaled that he should speak, so after a moment he began. "Word has been sent to Belfalas and the sons of Imrahil, and their ships are preparing to meet them. They will be outnumbered, yet along the coast there are towers and catapults built for destroying attacking fleets It may be that the Corsairs attempt to sail up the Anduin to Lebennin and Palargrir, in which case our ships will probably make a stand on Tolfalas."

Mithrandir nodded slowly. After a moment he sat up and glanced around the room. "Where is Faramir?" He asked, suddenly noticing his absence.

"My son has been at Henneth Annûn," Denethor informed him, "By now he should be at Cair Andros."

"With how many men?"

"Some five hundred."

Mithrandir nodded again, and stared absently at the map before him. After a moment Dagolad rose to his feet. "My lord," he addressed Denethor, "I have much to arrange before the arrival of the Southern troops. Is there anything more that needs my attention?"

"No, I think all has been said." Denethor answered, fixing his eyes on Mithrandir. The wizard nodded. "Indeed, all seems prepared. You have done well. One more thing I have to tell; Saruman has been defeated and captured, Théoden has routed his enemies, and he will soon ride to your aid."

The face of every man lightened, and smiles broke out on some. "Welcome tidings these are indeed, though not unforeseen," the steward said, rising to his feet. "You may be dismissed. Have your men sharpen their swords and prepare their armor for battle."

"Indeed, that has been done so often lately, I fear they will soon be wearing thin," Dagolad said lightly.

"No matter; they will not have to last long anyway," Breghor muttered, and escaped out the door. Dagolad followed him grimly, and even the usually taciturn Gamrod rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath as they filed out.

At last Mithrandir alone was left with the steward. "You see much, Lord Denethor," the wizard commented. "Many wonder at the swiftness of your tidings."

"It is only by constant watchfulness Gondor has stood so many years." Denethor answered guardedly.

Mithrandir sighed, and cut straight to the point. "Indeed. Yet the palantíri are dangerous tools, and can quickly become the master. You know the danger, and by whom the Ithil-stone is held."

"I know the dangers; I have grappled with them for many years. Yet danger is all around us these days, and should we try to flee from it, it would swiftly overtake us. Gondor stands today because her stewards have faced danger and subdued it."

"Indeed, yet a wise man will not challenge that which is stronger than him, especially when the lives of others are at stake."

Denethor lifted his head proudly, his gray eyes cold as ice. "I know what I face, Mithrandir. This is my city and my people, I know what is at stake here, and I know my strength."

Mithrandir held his gaze for a moment. At last he looked away in frustration. Why did every glance at the Steward have to turn into a staring match? Curse the man's pride! "Saruman was also for many years master of a Seeing Stone, and it was this that brought about his downfall," the wizard said, trying a different tack. "You knew this, of course?"

Denethor gave a curt nod, his eyes narrowing warily.

"For many years he used it to his profit, but at last he looked too far and Sauron became aware of him, and eventually took control of the palantír and was able to master Saruman's will and turn him to himself."

"Indeed, I thought better of him," Denethor said contemptuously. "Sauron's will is strong, yet Saruman was of the Istari, renowned for their strength."

Mithrandir's eyes flashed. "Do not underestimate the strength of Sauron. He has subdued the great with his will alone."

"I am in no danger of underestimating it, for I have wrestled with it many times of late," Denethor answered coolly, and was gratified to see surprise flicker in the wizard's eyes. "Did you think I was ignorant of his power? Did you expect me to fall under his will as did Saruman? No, the steward of Gondor is not foolish or weak, and Sauron has found me more difficult to break than he expected. For years he has grappled with my will, striving to take control of the palantír, yet he has failed. He has attempted to master me, yet I have wrenched free of him and directed my gaze where I will, though it has cost me much, and the Ithil-stone is most closely bound to mine."

Mithrandir gazed at him in silence. The steward was truly a son of Númenor, tall and proud, the afternoon sunlight glinting off his mail, matching the piercing gray of his eyes. And his will was strong, stronger than the wizard had thought it, if what he said was true. That he, a man, however strong, should have defied Sauron for so long and remained unscathed was more than he expected. He stared into Denethor's eyes for a moment, but they were guarded and he could read nothing. "Be on your guard," he said at last, "Sauron is crafty, and strength not his only weapon. The palantíri cannot lie, but they can deceive. They are dangerous tools, and should not be used lightly. I will not attempt to dissuade you from using it, as I do not think you would heed me."

Denethor smiled grimly. "I would not. I am the Steward of Gondor, I am capable of making my own decisions, and in this matter I deem I have more experience than even you, Mithrandir. As you have said, I am no fool; when I am a dotard I will die. And I am not dead yet. Now, if you will excuse me, I have much to see to."

"As do I. Yet beware, Steward, least pride in your strength brings your fall." Mithrandir rose, inclined his head in farewell, and strode purposefully from the room.

Denethor did have much to do, but he also had a lot to think on, and for a while he sat unmoving, staring wearily out the window. He had guessed that Saruman had a palantír, and been sure of it when he turned against them. Yet the news that Saruman had been corrupted by the use of it came as a surprise to him.

The Ithil-stone was more closely connected to the Arnor-stone than that of Isengard, so Denethor had probably felt the force of Sauron's will more keenly than Saruman could. And while Sauron certainly was strong, Saruman was the leader of the Istari and a being of great strength, so surely his will was a match for Sauron's. There was more to this riddle than Mithrandir had spoken of, or perhaps knew of. But whatever it was it did not really matter at the moment. Saruman was captured and out of the way, and his armies destroyed.

His eyes fixed on the map before him, and he absently traced his finger up the Harad road, mentally calculating where the Haradrim would now be.

His army was miniscule compared to Sauron's.

Yet the defenses were strong. The crossing at Osgiliath was strongly held, the work on the Rammas Echor was finally completed, and the great wall could be defended for a long time with a relatively small force. And even should Sauron breach both defenses, the city could be held for an age. With the women and children now gone, the carefully packed granaries would last them six months at least, in case of a siege.

The city _would_ stand, and somehow Sauron's armies would be defeated. Denethor drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, mentally reviewing the route the dark armies would take when they finally moved, as he had done countless times a day in the recent weeks.

Many of Sauron's forces would fall in bridging the Anduin, and more at the Rammas Echor. As they passed through the Pelennor they would be constantly assaulted by men hiding in the houses or orchards, sallying out unexpectedly or shooting at them from the bushes, then disappearing before the Orcs and Southrons had a chance to retaliate. Others would be killed in the siege of the city, and added to this was the difficulty of getting any sort of siege engine across the Pelennor, especially since the men of Gondor would set them alight whenever they got near to the walls. Denethor smiled grimly. If all went well, they had a chance of defeating the armies of Mordor.

Yet even should the battle be won, Mordor's armies crushed and the White City saved, still the Dark Lord was in his unassailable tower, ready to raise another force against Gondor. With every passing year Sauron's forces grew and Gondor's weakened. His was endlessly patient – he was Maia, eternal, he could afford to wait. He would keep sending armies until he won, and there was nothing Denethor could do about it.

Even in the days of Elendil and the alliance, they were on the brink of defeat, and even in victory they could not defeat Sauron, only delay him for a time. And then Gondor was in her prime of strength and glory and allied with the elven armies of Gil-galad. What hope was there now for Gondor, weakened and alone as she was?

And even should the unhoped for come to pass and Sauron was defeated, what cost would it demand of Gondor?

What was the price of victory?

Finduilas had once asked him the same question. He could picture her face as she asked it, her voice soft and questioning and her dark eyes full of doubt and fear…

April, 2988 

Denethor hurried through the halls, his heart light. The council had finished early, and his paperwork had already been taken care off, so he had a couple of hours free before dinner. It was not often these days that he had such a respite, for more and more often affairs came up which needed the steward's personal attention, and he was often worked all day and half the night.

He halted outside the door to his wife's rooms, and knocked softly. Often of late she had suffered from headaches and retired to her bed in the afternoons. He felt a little guilty for neglecting to free her up more - the life of the steward's wife was not one of leisure, as the running of the large household rested almost entirely in her hands.

After a moment the door was opened by Finduilas' personal servant, a woman from Dol Amroth named Eleniel. She had grown up with Finduilas and was her friend as much as servant. She dropped a quick curtsey at the sight of the steward. "My lord, the lady is not here, she has gone to rest in the gardens."

Denethor nodded quickly. "How is she feeling?"

Eleniel's eyes dropped and a frown passed across her forehead. "Her head has been aching a little this morning. She is-" The girl broke off, her eyes darting to the steady stream of servants and guards making their way through the halls. "Please, won't you step inside a moment? I do think I should – I am concerned for her, my lord, I thought I should let you know..." Her voice trailed off.

Denethor had never before seen her at a loss for words, and his anxiety grew. He nodded silently, stepped in the doorway into the airy sitting room, and sank into a chair, his gaze fixed on the servant as she stood nervously before him. At last she awkwardly started to speak. "Forgive me for my boldness, but I am rather worried about the lady. She is unusually pale, and she hasn't been eating as she ought to. She has also been very withdrawn and tired lately, and has not asked to see the children or been in company unless she can help it."

Denethor nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I too have noticed this, but I thought it was simply her headaches."

Eleniel shook her head decisively. "Forgive me, but I think there is more to it. I have been taking extra care of her, and in normal circumstances her headaches should have subsided by now. She seems unusually depressed, sir."

Understanding dawned in Denethor's eyes. "You suspect that she is with child again?"

The girl almost rolled her eyes, but caught herself in time, remembering who she was addressing, and merely shook her head. "No, she is not. She has been like this for several months already."

"Oh." Denethor said guiltily, cursing himself for not seeing her distress. He had been so busy, times were hard and the kingdom had to be actively held together. He had not had much time at all for his wife in the last while. He dropped his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. "And she has given you no idea of the cause of this… ailment?"

"No, my lord. I have tried to find out, but she will not speak of it."

"Thank you for informing me of this," Denethor said at last, "I will speak to her of it." He rose wearily and headed to the door, Eleniel hovering behind him. "She was in the eastern courtyard when I left her." The girl told him, and he nodded his thanks and headed purposefully through the halls. It seemed that the relaxing afternoon he had hoped for was not to come about.

When he stepped into the bright garden he spotted Finduilas immediately. She sat on a low stone bench, her eyes closed, leaning against the wide trunk of a tree draped in white blossom. She looked so beautiful and peaceful that Denethor did not want to disturb her, and stood in the doorway watching her for a while. All around her the flowers bloomed in the bright sunshine, and a small breeze swept her loose dark hair from her face.

He resolved that she needed rest and turned at last to leave, pondering what else he should spend his afternoon on, but she sensed his movement and her eyes opened. "Forgive, me, I did not mean to waken you," he said softly.

"I was not asleep," she answered, sitting up, "only resting."

"Then I will leave you to your rest," he told her, turning again to go.

"Do not leave me," she called after him, rising to her feet. "I would welcome your company, for my thoughts are dark. If you have time to spare for me, of course."

He turned back into the garden and sat down on the shady bench beside her. "Forgive me, if my time was all my own I would spend every minute of it with you," he told her, sensing the reproach behind her words. "There is so much to demand the steward's attention, these days. But tell me, what is troubling you?"

"Please, may we not speak of something else? I do not wish to talk of sorrows on so fair a day."

So Denethor buried his anxiety and launched into a tale of an amusing scene with his captains, remembering Eleniel's words and hoping to cheer her. If she did not want to speak of whatever troubled her, he would not bring it up, at least, not now. Finduilas listened as he spoke, but did not respond, and when he was finished silence fell.

"Are you sure you do not wish to speak of it?" Denethor ventured at last.

"Yes," she said forcefully.

Denethor lapsed back into silence, searching for something else to talk about.

"No!"

The steward winced at her tone, and turned to her in surprise. "What is it?"

"Denethor, I am afraid," she said, turning her dark eyes to him imploringly.

Denethor blinked, a little taken aback, but wisely refrained from comment. "Of what?" he asked after a moment.

"Of this," she stood and waved her arm toward the East and the Mountains of Shadow, "of the gathering darkness and the shadow that grows over Mordor. I fear for our future and that of our sons and of Gondor. I fear the ruin I see descending on our land."

Denethor blinked again, surprised and a little alarmed, and groping desperately for something to say. "Indeed, you have no reason to fear," he said carefully, "our men are strong, and the borders are secure."

"Do not try to deceive me, Denethor, I too have heard the rumors of the armies gathering in the plains of Mordor, and seen the anxiety plain on the faces of your captains and yourself. The shadow has of yet made no move, yet still his forces are multiplying, while the small scouting parties he sends against us are severely weakening our troops. We are growing weaker by the year, and when he finally unleashes his might, how long will we withstand him? Even now he could send thousands of orcs pouring into Gondor, covering the plain like a dark flood and sweeping away all life." She rose and paced agitatedly before him. "What hope is there for us? Minas Tirith will fall, Dol Amroth will be overrun with orcs and fell beasts, our people will all be killed, the whole of Gondor will be choked in shadow, and from thence the whole world. All that is good and beautiful, all light and courage will be crushed and the world will be dark. This is what I fear."

Denethor had listened to her tirade in growing astonishment and trepidation, but at this he rose to his feet and gripped her shoulders, compelling her to meet his gaze. "No!" He said forcefully, fire burning in his eyes, "Finduilas, this will not be, there is hope still for our people! These walls have stood here for centuries although thousands gathered to assail them, and our men are strong and courageous. While there is a man in Gondor with breath left in his body we will hold this city, no matter what the shadow brings."

Finduilas dropped her eyes from his, and after a moment lifted them to gaze into the east. "And when there is no longer any man here who draws breath?"

Denethor took her fine, cold hand in his battle hardened ones, and clasped it reassuringly. "I pray that it will never come to that. Yet even should the worst come to pass and all here should die, still there will be hope for our people! There are those of the Outlands who will escape into the hills or across the sea, and there grow in strength until they return and avenge us, and restore light to this land and rebuild our cities. The shadow will never, never hold sway over these lands. Our people are irrepressible." He shot her a rueful smile, but she did not notice it; her face was still turned to the east.

Denethor watched her, and his face became grave. After an moment he started again to speak. "Do you remember when we were betrothed in Dol Amroth, and I spoke to you of the war that was gathering, and told you that the future might come to this? We stood on the sea shore and you told me that you would stay beside me whatever came, as while the stars shone there was hope for our people. They have not stopped shining, Finduilas, and not even the Dark Lord's arm is long enough to pluck them out."

She finally turned her eyes back to him, and the shadow of sorrow and fear in them pierced his heart. "I was a fool then," she said softly, "I was young and happy, but I knew nothing of the depth of darkness assailing us."

"Finduilas, this is not the end. The future seems dark, but we have a future, we have hope still!" His voice held a note of desperation. Always his wife had been the one to encourage him; now the depth of her despair frightened him deeply, and he knew not how to reassure her. "Whatever comes, we _will_ survive this!"

She stood silent for so long that he was beginning to wonder if she had heard him. Then she lifted her head, and met his eyes squarely. "But at what cost?" she almost whispered.

And he had no reply.

**March, 3019**

Denethor's fist clenched, and he stared unseeingly into the fire. Three weeks afterward his wife had fallen sick, later dying, and leaving him alone. She had caught a simple fever, yet it was her lack of will to live that took her life.

She had come to him so young and so innocent, yet he had been powerless to protect her from the shadow of Mordor, he had seen her despair and her fear grow, and he had done nothing. And so she had died.

If only he had never laid eyes on her, never loved her! She would have remained in Dol Amroth and lived, happy and free of the shadow that clouded her last days. The guilt of her death would weigh on him all his days.

And now his eldest son had joined her.

Denethor closed his eyes as a wave of silent grief and loneliness washed over him. The war had cost him everything; his wife, his heir, his youth and strength, all in life that had brought him joy and peace and happiness was now gone. His whole life had been spent for the city, in guarding and preparing her for this time.

And now the final stroke was to fall, and the last toll was to be paid.

Surely it could not have all been in vain?


	5. Chapter 5

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My profuse apologies for the exorbitant delay in producing this chapter. I've been away for a while, and coupled with the Christmas rush I just haven't had much time at all for writing. On top of this I've found this chapter very difficult to write – believe it or not, I've written and rejected three totally different flashbacks for this chapter alone.

Much thanks to the eagle eyed Lindahoyland - yes, Aragorn was from the North, not the South.

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Disclaimer: All praise to Tolkien! Much of the dialogue in this chapter is taken directly from 'The Siege of Gondor', RotK. Unfortunately, it should be immediately obvious to the reader which part is Tolkien's and which mine.**

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March, 3019**

"But now we come to strange matters. For this is not the first halfling that I have seen walking out of northern legends into the Southlands." Faramir's gazes rose from the glowing coals in the brazier before him, wandering to the halfling before fixing on Mithrandir.

Denethor, too, watched the wizard, taking in his reaction to Faramir's words. He was taunt, eager, and expectant, gripping the arms of his chair tightly, although whether in anxiety or excitement the steward could not tell. The halfling, Pippin, however, simply radiated joy and excitement, and although a stern look from Mithrandir had quelled the cry rising on his lips, his face spoke just as clearly as words could have. Clearer, maybe, when one took into account his tendency to rush into speech without thought.

The four of them were gathered in Denethor's study: Mithrandir, Pippin, the Steward himself, and his son. Faramir was still very pale and his clothes were rumpled and dirty, smelling badly of horse sweat, among other things. Mithrandir too looked a little pale and dishevelled, and both of them sat wearily slumping a little in their chairs. It was but a half hour ago that the wizard had ridden out and rescued Faramir from the Nazgûl pursuing him from the great wall, and neither man had as yet quite recovered from the desperate ride. Denethor signalled to the halfling to refill their glasses, and, after staring at the Steward for several seconds in momentary confusion, Pippin recalled his duties and hastened to obey.

Faramir dipped his head in thanks before beginning his explanation. "It was the morning of the ambush on the Haradrim that we first caught sight of them. One of my men informed me that he had caught a glimpse of some creature in the pools; some orc or goblin, he thought it. I went myself with several of my men to seek it out, but when we thought we had it surrounded it somehow slipped away."

Denethor listened quietly, watching the faces of Mithrandir and the halfling. The wizard was tense and anxious, the halfling was clearly trying to hold in his excitement. He glanced at his son, and noted that he, too, had taken note of their clear recognition.

"It was barely an hour later that we caught sight of a wisp of smoke on the northern hillside. We decided that it must have been made by the creature who had eluded us, and carefully circled around it and drew closer, careful to let nothing escape us. We came to the fire, which was in a clump of fern, and as we began to search around it for the creature, two halflings sprung out." His eyes flicked to the Pippin, and he studied him for a moment, smiling a little to himself.

"They had small swords in their hands, which they were evidently ready to defend themselves with, they wore packs and their garb was strange and travel-stained. They insisted that they were travellers, and that they had come from Imladris." Faramir paused, and his gaze shifted to his father. "They told me also that they had travelled in the company of Boromir of Minas Tirith, as well as that of a dwarf, and elf, a man of the north, and two other halflings." He glanced again in curiosity at Pippin. "Also a wizard whom they named Gandalf, who fell in Moria." He raised an eyebrow at Mithrandir, who quirked him a small smile, but said nothing. "Yet they left the company at Parth Galen."

Denethor listened intently, his eyes fixed on his son's face. He remembered the scene at the river, remembered the sight of Thorongil on the riverbank with the elf and dwarf as his son's body floated away. That had undoubtedly been at Parth Galen, or someplace near. Evidently there had been some sort of fight there in which his son had been killed, he reflected bitterly.

And Mithrandir had been with them also? Why had his son been travelling with such companions? Maybe they were all the aid he could muster for his city? Denethor could not help noting the irony of the situation, that he should send his son to bring aid and he should return with Thorongil. Not that he had returned, of course.

"He knew also the words of the riddle that my brother and I dreamed," Faramir continued, "The older of the two spoke, he told me that they were the halflings spoken of in the rhyme, and that the sword that was broken was in the possession of one Aragorn, a man of the south and the leader of their company. I asked them of _Isildur's Bane_, and they said that its meaning was hidden." he glanced quickly at Mithrandir, then continued, "I had not time to question them further, as I had to ready my men for the ambush, so I set two guards over them and left them."

This news was vitally interesting to Denethor, however he kept his face carefully unreadable. Aragorn… Thorongil had never told him his true name, if indeed this was not simply another alias. And not only did Thorongil bear the ring of Barahir, he now bore also Elendil's sword? There was no doubt in Denethor's mind that he had come to claim the throne, but the question was, why had he not yet appeared? Maybe he had decided to wait until the war was over before he staked his claim? No, that was unfair. Whatever Thorongil had been, he was not a coward. The news of the halflings from the riddle was disturbing, also. He ran over the words in his mind, contemplating them in the light of this new information.

_Seek for the sword that was broken:_

_In Imladris it dwells;_

_There shall be counsels taken_

_Stronger than Morgul-spells._

_There shall be shown a token_

_That doom is near at hand,_

_For Isildur's Bane shall waken,_

_And the Halfling forth shall stand._

It was in _Isildur's Bane_ that the answer to the riddle lay, he was sure. Faramir's words had confirmed that.

"I returned to them near sunset, and I spoke long to the older of the two; Frodo he called himself. He told me of the errand that he came on, but he left much unsaid, their goal or outcome they hoped to achieve in their strange quest, and their place in it. It was clear that they could be going nowhere but Minas Morgul, and although they did not seem at all evil, still I was suspicious of them. I tried also to discover the meaning of the words _Isildur's Bane_, but they would say nothing of it. Then I spoke of Boromir, and asked why he did not lead their company, being prince of the White City? He told me then that this Aragorn, who I spoke of, claimed do be the heir of Elendil, in direct lineage from Isildur."

Faramir paused, and exchanged a wordless glance with his father before continuing. They had heated debated the possibility of an heir appearing for many years now. "He told me also that Boromir would explain everything when he arrived in the city. He told me that he had been heading straight home and should be waiting for me on my return. He knew nothing of Boromir's death." He paused, and took a deep breath. "I played along for a while, then I told him that Boromir was dead. He did not believe me until I revealed that I was his brother. They told me then that they had travelled through Lórien, and that when the company divided at Parth Galen there was no sign of any trouble. He was deeply troubled at the news, so I have no doubt that his ignorance of the matter was genuine.

"He asked me then to let him go on his way, as he said he had a deed to do that must be accomplished with haste. I told him that he must stay with me a little longer that I may judge if I was justified in letting him go. In truth, though, despite the mystery around his errand, his face and bearing were truthful, unless the halflings are better at hiding their purposes than men. He was reluctant, but he came with me."

"We talked much on the way to Henneth Annûn, of Boromir first and then of the riddle." He paused, glancing first at his father before exchanged a long wordless glance with Mithrandir. "I gathered that the thing, Isildur's bane, was some weapon; that it was or had been held by the halfling; and that, somehow, their errand concerned it. I gathered, too, that there had been some discord between Boromir and the halfling over it, which had maybe even been the cause of their company's division.

"There they rested a while, and after the evening meal we spoke again, of Boromir and other things of little import. It was then, by a slip of the tongue, I learned the meaning of the riddle. _Isildur's Bane_ is the ring of the Nameless, that we thought to have perished with him long ago. It seems that, like its master, it is hardier that we thought it."

Denethor drew in his breath, his mind racing. This indeed was unexpected news. The ring of the Enemy? It was said to be a thing of immense power, and could be central in the war. He glanced at Gandalf, gauging his reaction to this news. The wizard was rubbing his brow tiredly, and for a moment resignedly glanced up to meet the steward's steady gaze, before dropping his eyes again to the floor. There was no doubt that he had known of this.

"The halflings were both horrified, but, perhaps seeing no other option, Frodo explained to me that he was taking it to Mordor, there to destroy it in the fires of Mount Orodruin. He said that there was no other way to unmake the thing.

"I left them then to rest, as they were very weary. Later that night, however, my men again caught sight of the gangrel creature from the morning, in the pool of Henneth Annûn. I woke the halfling, suspecting him to be the companion of whom we had seen nothing of since the previous morning. I had, in fact, sent several men out to search for him, yet they had been unsuccessful.

"The halfling told me then that he was bound to the creature, who had served as their guide. He told me also a strange thing: that the creature had borne the treasure once, for many years. He then went down to it and called it by name, and it came willingly. I spoke to it a little, and found it an ancient creature, full of cunning and malice. We bound it then, and kept it locked away, although we treated it gently.

"However, I questioned him long as to where he was leading the halflings. He would make no answer, and at last Frodo told me of it. He did not know of its name, but he described it to me: A secret path winding to the peaks of the mountain and beyond, emerging from Morgul Vale – it could be naught but Cirith Ungol. The creature himself confirmed it. I warned the halflings then against that road, and the creature their guide, yet all that I could tell them was but rumour and hearsay – I knew naught of substance of either. Frodo asked me then what my intentions were concerning them." Faramir paused, his eyes shifting from Mithrandir to glance sidelong at his father.

"I gave Frodo protection to walk free anywhere in the realm of Gondor, save to return to Henneth Annûn, for a year and a day, during which time any with him would also be under my protection. After that time, however, I bade him present himself in the city that my father might confirm my judgement." He glanced again at Denethor, who remained grimly silent. They both knew that it was a severe breach of protocol for a captain to pass such a judgement; in such a situation the halflings should have been brought before the steward. Yet Faramir offered no explanation or apology for his behaviour, quickly resuming his story.

"I provided them then with supplies for some weeks, and they set off early. I counselled them again against that road, but they were determined, saying, as indeed is the case, that the was no other route open to them."

Mithrandir reacted instantly, leaping to his feet, his eyes wild. "Cirith Ungol? Morgul Vale? The time, Faramir, the time? When did you part with them? When would they reach that accursed valley?"

Denethor listened silently. He was struck speechless, in fact.

It had not occurred to him that his son would simply let the halflings leave on such a ridiculous errand, with such a treasure in their grasp. Was Faramir bereft of his senses? Did he not realise the value such a weapon would be to Gondor, and the incredible power it would provide the enemy should he regain it? That he should allow them to simply walk away with it into Morgul Vale, of all places, and thence to the very heart of Mordor and the stronghold of the enemy – Denethor had never even considered the possibility that his son could be capable of committing such absolute, devastating foolishness. It was beyond belief. Inconceivable.

Although what hope Gondor had was slim, at least it had been there. Their future was not yet so dark that the only option left to them was to surrender their limited weapons to the enemy, and even should they come to such a pass it would be better by far to use the ring as a bargaining tool, to at least secure some future for their remaining people with it. There was no need to send it to him so freely, escorted by two halflings with orders to bring it right to the Dark Lord's chambers, that he need not go to the trouble of fetching it himself…

Denethor opened his mouth silently, then shut it again, finding himself at a loss for words. Was this how the war was to end: Gondor dealt her killing blow by the steward's own son?

Surely, surely, Faramir could not be serious?

He blinked, focusing on his son as he answered Mithrandir apologetically.

"I parted with them in the morning two days ago. It is fifteen leagues thence to the vale of the Morgulduin, if they went straight south; and then they would be still five leagues westward of the accursed Tower. At swiftest they could not come there before today, and maybe they have not come there yet. Indeed I see what you fear. But the darkness is not due to their venture. It began yestereve, and all Ithilien was under shadow last night. It is clear to me that the Enemy has long planned an assault on us, and its hour had already been determined before ever the travellers left my keeping."

"The morning of two days ago, nigh on three days of journey! How far is the place where you parted?" Mithrandir asked, slowly sinking back into his chair.

"Some twenty-five leagues as a bird flies, but I could not come more swiftly. Yestereve I lay at Cair Andros, the long isle in the River northward which we hold in defence; and horses are kept on the hither bank. As the dark drew on I knew that haste was needed, so I rode thence with three others that could also be horsed. The rest of my company I sent south to strengthen the garrison at the fords of Osgiliath." His gaze shifted to his father, and he added, "I hope that I have not done ill?"

This was too much. Faramir had looked to the wizard for approval of his careless disregard for the fate of Gondor and Middle Earth, ignoring his father's will in the matter entirely, and then humbly asked if he had done well in garrisoning his men! Denethor felt his anger grow, and when he spoke his voice was dangerously low. "Ill? Why do you ask? The men were under your command. Or do you ask for my judgement on all your deeds?" Faramir's face grew impassive, and he met his father's gaze unrepentantly.

Denethor stared into his son's steel grey eyes, so like his own, and realised that he had known what he was doing in ignoring his father – he had known what Denethor would have wished him to do, and had intentionally disregarded it. Worse, he had disregarded it and looked instead for approval from the wizard. It did not much surprise him – it had always been Faramir's way to make his own decisions despite the disapproval of those around him – but it hurt him nonetheless, to his own surprise.

His voice dropped, and he went on, "Your bearing is lowly in my presence, yet it is long now since you have turned from your own way at my counsel. See, you have spoken skilfully, as ever; but I, have I not seen your eye fixed on Mithrandir, seeking whether you said well or too much? He has long had your heart in his keeping. My son, your father is old but not yet dotard. I can see and hear, as is my wont; and little of what you have half said or left unsaid is now hidden from me. I know the answer to many riddles. Alas, alas for Boromir!"

"If what I have done displeases you, my father, I wish I had known your counsel before the burden of so weighty a judgement was thrust on me."

Denethor stared at his son for a moment, then he asked softly, "would that have availed to change your judgement?" Faramir remained silent, and after a moment he went on, "I know you well, Ever your desire is to appear lordly and generous as a king of old, gracious, gentle. That may well befit one of high race, if he sits in power and peace. But in desperate hours gentleness may be repaid with death."

Faramir lifted his head proudly. "So be it."

"So be it! But not with your death alone, Lord Faramir: with the death also of your father, and all of your people, whom it is your part to protect now that Boromir is gone."

There was silence again in the room. Mithrandir sat listening quietly, his eyes closed.

"Do you wish then," asked Faramir at last, "That our places had been exchanged?"

Denethor grew angry at that. Did he expect a favourable answer, when he had just thrown away the greatest hope of the city? Had Boromir been in such a position, the war might have been won! Denethor wanted nothing less than to see Faramir dead, even could his death bring Boromir back, yet may times the steward had berated himself for allowing his heir to leave Gondor. Boromir was needed now, more than his brother would have been, and if Faramir was foolish to ask such a question, he could expect nothing but the truth. "Yes, I wish that indeed," he answered quietly, "for Boromir was loyal to me and no wizard's pupil." Mithrandir quirked an eyebrow at that, but did not open his eyes. "He would have remembered his father's need, and not squandered what fortune gave. He would have brought me a kingly gift."

"I would ask you, my father, to remember why it was that I, not he, was in Ithilien," Faramir answered, struggling to restrain the anger leaking into his tone. "On one occasion at least your counsel has prevailed, not long ago. It was the Lord of the City that gave the errand to him."

Denethor listened coolly. Why had Faramir asked such a question, if he was not ready to accept the answer? "Stir not the bitterness in the cup I mixed for myself. Have I not tasted it now many nights upon my tongue, foreboding that worse yet lay in the dregs? As now I find. Would it were not so! Would that this thing had come to me!"

Faramir drew in a breath as if he was about to speak, but then let it out slowly and silently leaned back in his chair. Gandalf it was who answered, opening his eyes and sitting up briskly, his tone businesslike. "Comfort yourself! In no case would Boromir have brought it to you." Denethor's eyes narrowed dangerously and his face became stony, but the wizard paid him no heed. "He is dead, and died well; may he sleep in peace! Yet you deceive yourself. He would have stretched out his hand to this thing, and in taking it he would have fallen. He would have kept it for his own, and when he returned you would not have known your son."

Hot anger coursed through Denethor's veins, and it took a great effort to keep his face impassive. He did not reply for a while, waiting to speak until he could get his emotions under control and keep his voice calm and quiet. "You found Boromir less apt to your hand, did you not? But I who was his father say that he would have brought it to me." he answered at last, not missing the flash of pain that shot through Faramir's eyes at his words. "You are wise, maybe, Mithrandir, yet with all you subtleties you have not all wisdom. Counsels may be found that are neither the webs of wizards nor the haste of fools. I have in this matter more lore and wisdom than you deem."

"What then is your wisdom?" Mithrandir asked, his eyes dark under his thick, shaggy eyebrows.

Denethor did not expect the wizard to pay any heed to what said, but answered anyway. "Enough to perceive that there are two follies to avoid. To use this thing is perilous. At this hour, to send it in the hands of a witless halfling," Denethor absently noted that Peregrine's face furrowed angrily at that, "into the land of the Enemy himself, as you have done, and this son of mine, that is madness."

Mithrandir lifted his eyebrows at that, but he simply asked mildly, "And the Lord Denethor what would he have done?"

"Neither. But most surely not for any argument would he have set this thing at hazard beyond all but a fool's hope, risking our utter ruin, if the enemy should recover what he lost. Nay, it should have been kept, hidden, hidden dark and deep. Not used, I say, unless at the uttermost end of need, but set beyond his grasp, save by a victory so final that what then befell would not trouble us, being dead."

"You think, as is your wont, my lord, of Gondor only. Yet there are other men and other lives, and time still to be. And for me, I pity even his slaves."

"And where will other men look for help, if Gondor falls? If I had this thing now in the deep vaults of this citadel, we should not then shake with dread under this gloom, fearing the worst, and our counsels would be undisturbed. If you do not trust me to endure this test, you do not know me yet."

"Nonetheless I do not trust you. Had I done so, I could have sent this thing hither to your keeping and spared myself and others much anguish. And now, hearing you speak I trust you less, no more than Boromir." Denethor's eyes flashed with anger, and made to interrupt, but the wizard raised his hand. "Nay, stay your wrath! I do not trust myself in this, and I refused this thing, even as a freely given gift. You are strong and can still in some matters govern yourself, Denethor; yet if you had received this thing, it would have overthrown you. Were it buried under the roots of Mindolluin, still it would burn your mind away, as the darkness grows, and yet worse things follow that soon shall come upon us."

Denethor held the wizard's gaze challengingly, his eyes burning with anger. Did the wizard think him a fool and a weakling? He said he knew of the long years the steward had struggled in the tower against the dark lord himself, yet he seemed to dismiss his strength of will as nothing. It was ridiculous! Yet Mithrandir remained a valuable ally who he could not afford to estrange, and besides, the argument was achieving nothing. It was time to be politic.

Denethor shrugged lightly, and consciously relaxed himself, although his gaze remained fixed on the wizard. "If I had! If you had! Such words and ifs are vain. It has gone into the Shadow, and only time will show what doom awaits it, and us. The time will not be long. In what is left, let all who fight the Enemy in their fashion be at one, and keep hope while they may, and after hope still the hardihood to die free." He changed the subject, turning to his son, who had remained silent all this while, slouched a little in his seat. "What think you of the garrison at Osgiliath?"

Faramir straightened with considerable effort, and answered, "It is not strong. I have sent the company of Ithilien to strengthen it, as I have said." Both men were adept at hiding their feelings, and the strain between them was barely perceptible.

Denethor gave a slight nod and frowned thoughtfully. "Not enough, I deem. It is there that the first blow will fall. They will have need of some stout captain there." Already he was running through the list of possible leaders in his mind, and found it very short.

Faramir sighed tiredly. "There and elsewhere in many places. Alas for my brother, who I too loved!" He pulled himself heavily from his seat, swaying a little on his feet. "May I have your leave, father?"

"You are weary, I see," Denethor answered, his voice softening a little. "You have ridden fast and far, and under shadows of evil in the air, I am told."

Faramir inclined his head wearily. "Let us not speak of that!"

"Then we will not. Go now and rest as you may. Tomorrow's need will be sterner."

Faramir acknowledged him with another nod, and trudged wearily from the room. Mithrandir also excused himself, and was followed out by the halfling.

Denethor however, sat alone there for many hours, his thoughts on his son.

He felt incredibly betrayed, and not only by Faramir's decision in regard to the halflings. He had not missed the anxious way in which his son's eyes had continually flicked to Mithrandir's face as he reported his conduct, and the fact that he would wish for the wizard's approval over that of his own father cut Denethor deeply.

It was a betrayal of his country – to seek for the approval of the wizard over the good of his people. It was dangerous alliance – Mithrandir worked for his own ends, and could well turn against them should they lose the upper hand. Yet it was more than that. Faramir had shown no regard for the wishes of his father, and even when Denethor had rebuked him he had shown no remorse for what he did.

In a sense, Denethor felt as though he had lost another son.

Faramir had always been prone to act out of pity rather than conscious decision, however, and Denethor wondered hopefully whether his betrayal of his people might not have been out of pity for the halflings rather than conscious disregard for his people.

He had always been prone to take the pain and troubles of others too deeply to heart.

**February, 3014**

"Brother!" Boromir leapt down the stairs and pulled Faramir into a tight embrace. "I am glad to see you!" He pulled back and eyed his brother, taking in his torn and dirty clothing and weary bearing, his eyes lingering with concern on his brother's downcast face and troubled eyes. "Is all well? You are not hurt at all?"

Faramir shook his head, clasping his brother's shoulder in greeting. "No," he replied softly, "I am not hurt, only very weary." He drew in a breath and let it out in a long sigh, then let his hand drop from his brother's arm and turned to Denethor. "Father," he said, bowing his head slightly in greeting.

"Faramir," Denethor returned, studying his son's face concernedly. Faramir had always tended to be unusually grave when he came home from active duty, but today he sensed that there was something more to it than that. His son's face was lined and drawn, there were dark circles under his eyes, and he avoided his father's gaze. Denethor considered whether he should ask his son to report immediately or let him get some rest first. He seemed weary to the point of exhaustion.

"If there is naught of urgency to relate in the matter of your venture, I will allow you some hours of rest before you must report," he said at last, his voice a little softer than usual. "I see that you are in dire need of sleep."

Faramir nodded tiredly. "Nay, there is nothing of urgency. We destroyed a large orc-hoard at the crossroads, although only at some considerable loss of my own men." He paused a moment then, and his eyes darkened a little. "I have left most of the remainder of my company in Osgiliath and rode here with four of my men, whom I have stationed in the barracks of the sixth level."

Denethor nodded. "Go, then, and rest. If the captains need to hear a report today I will bid them summon one of your men to tell of it."

Faramir's face relaxed into a small smile of relief and gratitude. "I thank you, father. You do not know how I was dreading that long interview, and the hours of giving reports and explanations that were to follow."

Denethor gave him a small smile. "Indeed I understand better than you give me credit for. For you forget the long years that I also served as a captain here."

"Come then," Boromir said, laying his hands on his brother's shoulders and gently shoving him toward the door. "To bed with you, Captain Faramir, at once."

Another hour saw Denethor striding through the corridors of the citadel.

He glanced longingly outside as he passed an open doorway, drinking in the sight of the cool grass and shady trees, their leaves swept about by the breeze. The sound of Boromir's voice halted him, and, glancing around the courtyard, he caught sight of his heir sitting on a bench under one of the trees close by. With a little surprise he noted Faramir beside him, lying on his back in the grass and staring up into the leaves. He had expected his younger son to be still asleep, and took a step toward the doorway and stood, watching them, a small frown on his face.

Boromir was carefully sharpening his knives as he spoke to his brother, a frown of concentration on his face. "You cannot blame me for being worried about you – it is hardly normal practice to be unable to sleep after such an exhausting mission."

"The heat inside is not conductive to rest."

"Nevertheless…" Boromir prompted, but when, after a few moments, his brother had still not responded, he paused his steady strokes and fixed his eyes on Faramir. "I think there is something more."

Faramir glanced at him, then closed his eyes and turned his head away. "You are right, as always." He made no move to explain, and Boromir prompted him with a poke in the side with the toe of his boot. "Well?"

Faramir turned his head to look his brother in the face. His voice was so low that Denethor had to strain his ears to hear him. "Almost thirty of my men were killed in Ithilien, Boromir."

Boromir's eyebrows shot up, and he drew in his breath sharply. "Thirty rangers? What sort of odds were you facing?"

"Relatively even ones, actually," Faramir answered, and even from several metres away Denethor could hear the slight tremble in his voice. "There were near eighty of us, and about one hundred fifty of them."

"You lost thirty men from your company? A little more than a third of your total force?"

Faramir nodded wordlessly.

"It's not _too_ bad," Boromir offered at last, "I've done worse myself. Especially against that many."

Faramir shook his head, his face tightening. "I'm not a child, Boromir, I know what I should hope to achieve. Yet it is not only that. I led those men to their deaths, Boromir, it was I-" He faltered, and turned his face to the ground, fighting to control himself. Boromir waited, his knife lying forgotten in his lap, his eyes fixed pityingly on his little brother. "What happened?"

Faramir lay for a moment, gathering himself, then he began to speak, his voice almost level and matter-of-fact. "It was on the morning of four days ago. A scout reported a large group of orcs gathered near the crossroads. We gathered that it was simply a hunting party, some hundred strong, and I had near eighty good men with me, so we thought that we could destroy them relatively easily. They were sheltering in a cave a little north of the crossroads, and we planned to surround them in daylight, when most would be resting inside. Everything went along fine, at first – we got passed the sentries without incident and were picking off those asleep in the cave before any of them even raised the alarm. We destroyed about half their party before they were even aware of us."

"But then you suddenly realised that it was not all their party?" Boromir speculated.

"Near," Faramir answered, heavily, "but not in the gold. When the orcs became aware of their peril we were quickly alerted, as they began to screech and snarl like beasts. Swiftly they poured from the cave to attack us, yet there was no order or discipline to their charge, and we shot them down with ease." He sighed a little, almost as though he regretted the killing of the orcs, although his father did not doubt that that was impossible. "We possessed every advantage: we had taken them by surprise; they were not at their best in the sunshine, while we were active and vigorous; they could not see us, being concealed in the shrubbery, yet they made easy targets for our bows. The most intelligent and the most cowardly among them stayed within the cave, yet, orcs not being known for either of these traits, they were few. The massacre was almost complete, when we perceived an affray on the eastern hillside, and a clamour swiftly escalating."

Faramir paused and laid his hand over his eyes. Denethor could see his chest rise and fall as he gathered a few steadying breaths.

"I know not from whence the orcs came – we had seen no sign of them. Mayhap it was but chance that governing their arrival, they may have heard the yells from afar or might have planned the affray all along – I know not. But they came up the hillside far more stealthily than is their wont, and took many of the rangers by surprise. It was then that the majority of my men fell – once I realised what was happening I gave the signal for retreat, and we circled about them and cut down every one." Boromir's face was bitter as he listened, Faramir's was simply grief stricken. "Yet we were too late for those who had been taken unawares."

Silence fell, broken only by the rustling of the leaves and the low chatter of a group of servants working in some room nearby.

At last Faramir spoke again, but his voice was so low that Denethor could hardly catch the words. "Many of those men have fought beside me since I first held a sword, they were like brothers to me, some like fathers, even. Every man of them was absolutely loyal, even in the face of hopelessness, and courageous beyond measure. There was one, Eärnur was his name. He was barely more than a boy, he only joined my company this spring. His enthusiasm knew no bounds, and he admired me as if I was Beleg Strongbow himself-" Faramir swallowed painfully, and his father could see tears trickling down his cheeks.

"He was fatally wounded in the first attack. All I could do was hold him in my arms as he died." Faramir's fist clenched, and he stared up through the rustling leaves to the great expanse of endless blue, formless and changeless as the day it was brought into being. Denethor wondered what he was thinking of as he watched his son's pale, tear streaked face fill with conflicting emotions.

Denethor realised that his hands were clenched so tightly that the nails were digging into his fists, and his eyes were smarting with tears of his own. They were tears of pity for his son, but also those of remembrance – he too had fought for many years, and led many companies, there were many companions who he had lost.

"I think that his face will stay with me for all eternity. He was in much pain. It was almost a relief when he finally passed. As he died he alternated between fear of death and what may be to come, and radiant joy over having served his captain so well." Faramir turned his face toward his brother, his grey eyes clear and full of pain. "He asked me to tell his family, who live on the Pelennor. I went to see them before I came here, and brought them the grievous tidings."

He turned his face back to the tree tops, silent for a long moment. Denethor had a good idea of what the interview with the boy's family would have cost his son: he had been through the same thing many times himself. To go into a home and break such news to a family, to see their faces drain of colour and hear their cries of pain, to see their grief and disbelief – there were few tasks more heartbreaking, or entirely draining.

Faramir had a courage of his own kind.

"There were many more also," Faramir went on, "Some did not pass ere sunrise the next day. We made came just a little away from that place, as there were too many of the grievously wounded to move to a safer haven. We tended to the dying without respite that night, and further the next morning, when much time was also spent in burying the dead. Not one of those who were caught by the orcs in that first rush survived."

Boromir nodded grimly. Orcs were adept at dealing crushing, killing blows, it was not often that anyone felled by one would recover.

"There were so many…" Faramir's voice broke, and he sat up, tears flowing again down his pale cheeks. "So many fallen. Yet I could name each one."

Boromir leaned forward and placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "They each fought and died for their homes and their people," he said softly. "There is no greater way to honour them than to each do our own part in saving the world that they died for. Do not mourn for them overmuch. For my part, I would gladly give my life if by my death I could in some way bring about Gondor's salvation."

Faramir shook his head. "In my mind I know this. Yet I do not think that their shadows will ever fully leave me. The death of each man in this war weighs heavy on my heart, I cannot put it behind me without losing my heart also. It sickens me, Boromir, the thought of the grief and pain all around us. Will it ever come to an end? And can those who live through such times ever truly be free of them?"

Denethor turned, and paced unseeingly down the halls to his chambers. It was not until he stood in his doorway, his hand still resting on the cool, elegantly wrought handle of his door, that he realised that he had completely forgotten what he came for.

**March, 3019**

Denethor felt a wave of pity for his youngest. Faramir had not the strength of will in this area to put death behind him, as Boromir did, to detach himself somewhat from the people around him. It was an essential thing for a soldier to learn, one could not go on accumulating such a weight of guilt, for it was too much for any man to bear. Faramir would never be the soldier Boromir had been until he learnt it.

Some might call such empathy a virtue, yet in those in power it could result in the destruction of entire nations. Those who were to lead men must learn to put their emotions behind them, and in every decision think clearly on what would best benefit the nation. To Faramir's credit, he tried hard to do so.

That evening long ago, when Faramir had given his report on the deaths at Ithilien, Denethor had questioned him about the loss he felt, wanting the chance to comfort his son. Yet Faramir had been stoic about it, making out that he felt nothing. Denethor knew that it was an act put on for his benefit, that his son was trying to act the man that he thought his father wanted to see.

In truth, however, there was nothing Denethor would rather have done than take his son in his arms and comfort him. The conversation he had overheard had affected him deeply, bringing up memories he had long kept hidden.

He himself had been stationed in Ithilien as a young man, and his childhood friend, Cirion, had always fought beside him. Cirion had grown up beside Denethor and been like the brother he had never had. There were few, in fact, to whom the Steward had ever been closer.

They had both been involved in a small ambush – it was a simple piece of work and should have been completed without incident. Yet one orc had managed to escape almost undetected, Cirion had pursued it, and in cutting it down had receive a fatal slash to the stomach. Denethor had found him after almost an hour of searching, white with pain and loss of blood. There was nothing any of them could do – they were far from any sort of medical help. Even were they in the Houses of Healing, however, there was nothing they could have done for him besides giving him pain relief, for his innards were ripped beyond repair.

It was a painful wound however, and neither did it soon bring death. For hours Denethor held his friend, watching his struggle with the pain, and knowing he could feel it for hours, maybe even days more, before death finally ended his cruel torment. The rangers had taken counsel together and decided that the most merciful thing was to deal him the death he begged for. There was nothing else they could do for him.

Discussing such a thing and putting it into practice, however, were very different matters, and at last it was Denethor, pale and stricken with grief, who dealt him the blow. He had stabbed his friend in the heart, and immediately wished despairingly to do the same to himself. Even then, however, it was the thought of his city and his duty to her that stayed his hand. Often he felt that it was the only thing that had kept him alive through those dark days.

His duty to his city – she was all he lived for.

It was an all-devouring focus, and an intensely lonely one.

Yet still, like his son, he sometimes felt that the shadows of those whom he had lost would haunt him forever.


End file.
